


Almost

by maiNuoire



Category: Eyewitness (US TV)
Genre: Character Study, Introspection, M/M, allusions to Philip doing sex work, but it's very brief, episode 6 related, this is very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maiNuoire/pseuds/maiNuoire
Summary: Philip is used to being thrown away, but, he wasn't expecting it to hurt quite like this this time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am hoping to write a much happier thing for these two, but first this happened.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Here's hoping that tonight's episode gives these two a few quiet moments.

Philip felt like garbage in the most literal sense. He had grown so used to being thrown away, he almost didn’t feel the ache of it anymore. The weight on his chest, the shaking in his limbs, the dizzy disbelief of betrayal; the stomach dropping to his toes feeling of being untethered, unwanted.

 

Almost.

 

He was tossed aside by his father before he was much more than an idea ( _ No one’s gonna know about this, because you’re not going to tell _ ). Thrown aside by his mother in favor of needles and spoons, and the thrill of chasing oblivion ( _ Can you help me get some drugs… I thought because of your mom… If you liked me too, you’d help me _ ). Thrown away by a rotating cast of boyfriends and drug dealers that came in and out of his mom’s life, sneered at, or worse, leered at and then dismissed as an inconvenience ( _ Why are you talking to me here, someone might see… Stop stalking me! _ ). 

 

He was thrown away like something spoiled by faceless strangers who he let touch him tenderly to keep food in the fridge and heat in the vents, even as he’d shoved the shame of it down low ( _ I’m not gay like you… No one wants me to be that guy _ ). He’d bounced briefly through foster homes and group homes during his mom’s various short lived stints in rehab, half-hearted efforts at getting clean. None of the other kids or foster parents ever took much interest in him or bothered to feign sadness at his leaving ( _ Get out of here. Go! _ ). 

 

He knew when he got to Gabe and Helen that it was inevitable; eventually they’d throw him away, too. Though he certainly didn’t imagine it coming on the coattails of a triple homicide and the heartbreak of his secret- _ something _ painting him as a liar, an addict like his mother. Untrustworthy, unlovable, unwanted. Trash.

 

He barely remembers making the phone call to his social worker. It was a preemptive strike; remove himself before he had to hear Gabe or Helen say that they thought it was time for him to go. Even with Gabe’s attempted defense ringing in his ears, the sympathetic look on his face, Philip knows he’s all alone, on the edge of being tossed away again. 

 

All he can see is the look on Lukas’ face as he so easily dropped lie after lie about him. The casual sneer and the way he wouldn’t look Philip in the eye. And, worse than that, the raw panic when Bo mentioned calling social services; it was almost enough to convince Philip that Lukas cared about him.

 

Almost.

 

Helen was a whole other layer of hurt. He had thought they were making progress. The parenting CD in her car, and her initial belief in the gun and in Philip’s edited account of that night, the bonding over takeout and dancing… He had thought that maybe he had found a family here. Gabe was so eager to be his father, reaching out and offering advice and support unconditionally,  and Philip had been reaching back as best he could. He’d opened up as much as years of practice  holding all his doors and windows shut allowed him to. 

 

And here he was, packing up his meager belongings, forcing himself to take the few sweatshirts and jeans that Gabe and Helen had bought him, for fear of being cold or without resources to get replacements at the next place he landed. He couldn’t quite bring himself to keep the boots, even though he needed them badly. They felt too much like a gift from people he no longer knew.

 

He dragged himself out the front door, trying not to look fondly at the place he’d almost started calling home, his eyes tracing the table where they ate together, the couch where they had tried to watch movies but ended up laughing and tearing them apart together instead, the front porch where- where so much had happened. 

 

He pretends not to notice Helen and Gabe arguing in the barn as he climbs into the back of the truck, eyes carefully fixed on the back of the headrest. He clenches his jaw and his fists tightly, lets his blunt nails scrape harshly against his palms and tries not to think.

 

He closes his eyes with force, willing away the wave of nauseous panic.  _ I should have taken the boots _ , he thinks. _ I should’ve just run _ .  _ I should have just told the whole truth _ . _ I shouldn’t have said a word and maybe they’d still want me here _ . He gasps around a sob, pushes it down and squeezes his eyes shut tighter. Digs his fists into his thighs and tries not to cry.

 

He tries not to think about the steel bands squeezing around his heart, the bitter fear in his chest, the painful clenching in his belly, the echo of hurt as  yet another almost slips through his fingers. Almost a family, almost a home, almost good enough. Almost, but not.

 

He forcibly shoves aside thoughts of Lukas, though they flood him anyway. Lukas’ lips on his own, soft and searching and almost desperate. Lukas’ fingertips tracing over his skin, bumping lightly over the curve of his hip and along the ridges of his spine. Lukas’ breath warm and sweet on his neck, whispering past his ear with a rush of nonsense that sounded like declarations of intent. Lukas’ hair in between Philip’s fingers, his skin pale and glowing in the low light, calling out for Philip’s lips and hands. Lukas’ smile, and how it changed his whole face.

 

Lukas’ laugh, bright and unexpected, like nothing Philip had ever heard before, and something he hadn’t heard enough of; could never hear enough of, and now, wouldn’t. 

He can’t not think about Lukas’ kisses, and how they felt like promises; like a  _ Someday it’ll be you and me _ . How Lukas would cradle his face, long fingers splayed and teasing at his neck, his thumb tracing at Philip’s lower lip reverently, a look of near awe on his face and his eyes open and vulnerable, locked on Philip’s own. Philip tries to pretend it didn’t make him feel treasured, like he mattered. Like he was enough.

 

It almost works.

 

He tries not to think about the weight behind his navel, the low, ebbing pain that started when Lukas Waldenbeck came into his life, and was made both better and worse only in his presence. He pretends that there isn’t a phantom feeling in his heart where Lukas’ attention used to be. He tries to forget about the way it felt to lie with him in the field behind his house and talk about nothing in particular. About the feel of being pressed up against Lukas’ back, and how the muscles in his stomach would jump and flex under Philip’s arms where they wrapped around him as they sliced through the wind on his motorcycle. 

 

He tries extra hard to forget the way it felt to have Lukas behind him as they sat on his idling bike and he tried to teach him to ride the thing, and how it felt monumental that Lukas would share that with him. 

 

He willfully ignores the sharp pain in his stomach at the thought of helping Lukas with that awful video. The guilt over humiliating Rose eclipsed only by the heartbreak of watching the scene unfold, and the feel of Lukas’ gaze on him as he hid behind the tree, almost like he had needed to be sure Philip was watching. He can almost forget the whole thing if he squeezes his eyes shut hard enough.

 

He almost forgets about the way Lukas listened to him, and how Lukas needed him, and how Lukas saved him. How he started making small spaces in his life that Philip could fit into. How he held him so close, but so gently, as if Philip were precious. How he held his hand and kissed him as he had dragged Philip all over the city, asking inane questions just to make him laugh. How he looked so pleased with himself when he gave Philip the camera, having spent money he said he didn’t have on a gift. 

 

Between the camera, which he can practically feel weighing down his bag where it presses against his leg, and the boots from Helen and Gabe, he thinks this is probably the first time in as long as he can remember that anyone has bought him something. The thought settles like a lead blanket over his heart, and he has to swallow down the heavy ball of grief in his throat.

 

What he can’t quite forget, what hurts the most, is how in spite of everything- all these sleights and stabs, all these little joys that will turn to painful reminders of another time he wasn’t enough as the weeks and months pass by,- is that Lukas filled in all the broken places inside him. 

 

All the parts of himself that he had felt crack and chip away with every new dismissal and demotion felt made new again whenever Lukas looked at him like he mattered. Whenever Lukas’ smile went all the way to his eyes, and he laughed and tackled Philip to the ground. Everytime he pinned him in place with a look, or his hands, and ever so carefully brought their lips together, it flooded through Philip’s veins in a giddy rush and made its way into all the aching places inside him. If he bites his lip hard enough to taste copper, he can will away the images flashing behind his squeezed shut eyelids.

 

Almost.

 

He opens his eyes and blinks rapidly, trying to clear away the ghosts. Trying to find the calm he has tried so hard to perfect ( _ I was chill for my mom, I can be chill for you _ ) and finding that it has momentarily escaped him. He’s not surprised that apparently he can’t even be bothered to try to save himself this last painful almost.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gabe moving toward the car. He has the boots in his hand, and Philip tries again to ignore the overwhelming wave of disappointed anger. He tries not to let it hurt that Gabe and Helen aren’t fighting for him. He had thought, maybe that that had been the argument they were having in the barn, but the presence of the boots tells him that he was wrong. Gabe looks guilty and apologetic, and Philip takes a deep breath, tries to find a word of absolution for his almost dad, and then there’s the unmistakable rumble of a motorcycle, and Philip instead takes a moment to resent the flutter of hope that starts in his stomach and moves through his body until it dances along his fingertips.

 

He hates himself a little as the feeling intensifies as the sound grows louder and nearer.

 

And then, Lukas is there. Standing in front of Helen holding out the gun like an offering, and Philip can feel Lukas’ eyes on him just like he always can. He tries not to look, and he convinces himself that it’s all still over. That this is a fever dream. That it’s still all crashing down around him.

 

He manages not to look, not to watch, not to hope. 

 

Almost.

 

When he finally allows himself to look, he finds Lukas looking right back at him, remorse and earnest  _ something _ in his eyes, and Philip tries to tell himself he hasn’t already halfway forgiven him. 

  
He even almost believes it.

**Author's Note:**

> Come join me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/poetry-protest-pornography) to talk about fandom, feminism and such!


End file.
